The soft whispers of the God in man.

By all means use some time to be alone.

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?